


Duplicity

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Graphic Description, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22843459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Kink Meme Fill: Malcolm's nightmare takes an odd, sexual turn. Eventually he realizes the sex feels a little too real...Pure PWP.  Hard trigger warnings for Rape/Non-Con and Violence
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme - Anonymous





	Duplicity

Malcolm can’t remember a time before the dreams. Except they’ve never really been dreams, have they? 

Nightmares are nothing new. If anything, they’re a place he knows. Familiar, a world where the terror and uncertainty can be pushed through. Rearranged. Used as a tool to fuel him.

Sometimes though, the nightmares don’t quite go to script.

When he wanders through his family home, barefoot in pajamas at ten years old, at least he knows where he’s going. He knows the texture of the walls as he slides his fingers down them. He knows where every doorway leads. Even the ones he’s not supposed to know about; the ones in the basement. 

He knows what chloroform smells like. He knows how shadows dance over his bed in the middle of the night, little carousel shapes and whispers of abandoned innocence. He knows what Martin Whitly’s cologne smells like as he leans over him in bed, pulls up the covers and tells him goodnight. Just like good fathers are supposed to do for their sons.

That’s all he gets. A few moments where everything is normal. Everything is just like it used to be  _ before _ .

Maybe his mind doesn’t know what really happened after that. Maybe that’s why he’s always dreaming, his vivid imagination working overtime to fill in the gaps. Running endless algorithms of possibility, churning out one  _ almost _ reality after another, trying them on for size. Desperate to find one that feels right.

The only problem with that, is he has to live through so many that feel terribly, chillingly  _ wrong. _

Strangers come into his house, sometimes. The girl in the box, along with all the torturous questions he’s asked himself so many times over the last decade about who she is, what happened to her. John has walked these halls too, and Carter Berkhead and all the others he’s failed to save. 

He rarely sees friendly faces these days. Not unless it’s someone his mind conjures up to torture him.

A new shadow lives here now. The profiler isn’t sure who it is or where he came from. He’s tall and broad with massive hands and ten-year old Malcolm doesn’t remember seeing him before. He’s terrified of him.

Breathing hard in short little gasps, Malcolm runs down empty hallways in the dark. The shadow follows him. Always a step or two behind, no matter how many turns he takes. No matter how far he runs. 

It follows him into his bedroom, where he jumps into bed and pulls the covers over his head like they can somehow protect him. The shadow rips the blankets off and they fall to the floor in slow motion like little toy soldiers with their paper parachutes. 

In his mind, Malcolm screams.

And suddenly he’s not a child anymore, which tells him the dream is changing again. He’s full-grown and wearing his second favorite suit, but he’s still laying on his childhood bed. His arms and legs frozen. He’s tearing at invisible chains but can’t move a muscle.

He can’t move.

Those hands are huge, spreading over his chest and pinning him down, pushing him into the mattress until he can’t breathe.

Malcolm—adult Malcolm, capable and confident Malcolm—knows this is all in his head. Nobody has hands that big, strong enough to crush every rib in his chest like brittle tree branches. No human could loom over him like a brick wall that came to life and peeled away from it’s frame. 

He can change this, he thinks, if he just tries hard enough. He should be looking for clues, for answers, for anything to help him escape. But he doesn’t. He just lays there and stares up into a shapeless shadow of a face and doesn’t do anything at all. 

He chokes on a cry, throws his skull back against the mattress  _ hard _ as something touches him. Palming him over his clothes and slipping down, too far down. Pressing a little too hard, like it’s meant to arouse, to tease. It just makes him feel sick.

“Stop,” he manages to say, and he’s proud and disgusted by that. Proud he managed to speak at all because there’s no air, no oxygen in his lungs. Disgusted because why is that it, why is that the most he can do to protect himself?

He’s a grown man who can’t stop reacting like a child. Like a victim.

“I said stop!” He tries to force his voice to be stronger, he tries to mean it. If there ever was a time to control this, to fight his own mind, he thinks this is it. It has to be now, before it destroys him completely. 

The thing laughs. A deep, rumbling sound that shakes every inch of his massive body. Reverberates like a bass drum.

His clothes are gone. They disappeared faster than he could blink, because he’s not in control. He never was.

And there’s a hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking him with misplaced gentleness. 

“No, no no no” he repeats like a prayer, squeezing his eyes shut. 

His body is panicking, stressed and strung out, but it’s not enough to keep his cock from reacting to the touch. It’s slow and agonizing as he hardens in that grip, disgusted at himself for feeling it at all.

The pleasure part doesn’t last. Something blunt and fleshy is teasing at his entrance, another thick finger dipping into Malcolm’s mouth. 

He tries to bite down, or he tells himself as much. Instead he sucks on that too-large finger, and has no idea why. He’s still not in control and if that isn’t the goddamn story of his life than nothing is. 

The shape hums in pleasure and says something, the words lost in a low rumble. It’s the tone that gets to him, the timbre of pleasure and praise that makes Malcolm’s body sing even as his mind wallows in terror. 

The finger disappears, drifts down to push at the tight entrance between his legs.

Malcolm thinks if he concentrates, if he just tries hard enough he can resist. 

The finger presses, pushes, relentless. Edges past the ring of muscle without caring that it hurts. Keeps going. Deeper and farther until it’s all the way inside him. Pulls out and is joined by a second. This time it  _ really _ hurts, because a little saliva isn’t enough to ease the way for two fingers.

Malcolm thinks he’s crying out now, maybe begging or maybe just releasing his shame and horror in vague noises of desperation.

The shape talks to him in that same tone, murmuring something that has no words but is meant to keep him calm, keep him still. A twisted facsimile of affection. 

Three fingers. It’s agony. Blunt tips curling and stretching mercilessly.

The fingers disappear and the relief is too brief. Something hot and impossibly large replaces the fingers, and it doesn’t stop. Presses in.

Malcolm tries to scream.

He comes back with a start, stops halfway. His head is stuffed with cotton, his mouth dry and his jaw tight. There’s a burning on either side of his temple like a headache, but it intensifies as he comes back to consciousness. Burning, stinging until he thinks maybe he should be alarmed. It feels like his skin is melted off down to the bone, raw and intense.

That’s far from the most concerning thing going on right now.

He recognizes his surroundings, forces his frayed and tattered mind to start drawing connections. There’s a blinking ECT machine sitting next to the chair. He’s still at the Vosler Institute. 

He should probably be a little more terrified that he’s naked from the waist down, his button-up shirt torn open and pushed down around his shoulders. His wrists are strapped to the chair.

Someone is breathing heavily above him, little grunts and moans and obscene words tumbling off unfamiliar lips.

Malcolm doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to face the hard line of what’s real and what isn’t, what might have followed him out of his nightmares into the waking world. 

He isn’t sure why, but he thinks that might break him. Out of everything he’s been through, this might be it. Propping open the doors in his mind, letting the darkest things that hide there escape. 

This isn’t real. Just another nightmare.

The figure above him isn’t a shadow anymore. Instead it’s Quintin Vosler. Features that might have been vaguely handsome under any other circumstances come into sharp relief. A muscled chest is slicked with sweat, every tendon pulled tight and straining with exertion. There’s a glistening puddle of sweat drops gathered in the hollow between his neck and clavicle, collarbone jutting and pushing. 

And he’s fucking him. Moving in and out at an ever-changing pace, his entire body flushed with pleasure. 

It’s a pretty fucked up nightmare, Malcolm thinks, even by his standards.

“This isn’t real,” he hears himself say, thinks he should be alarmed at the slur in his voice.

“Oh it’s real,” Vosler laughs breathlessly. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Shut up!” Vosler slaps him across the face, and maybe it’s his disoriented state or the two spots of melted skin on his forehead, but it rings Malcolm’s skull like a bell. 

Those hands are strong in reality too. If this really is reality. 

“You’re getting off too,” Vosler pants from above. “You can’t even say you didn’t want this.”

“No—I was dreaming...” 

Even as he says it Malcolm feels his cock bobbing against his belly, rock-hard and leaking. It’s bad enough to know that reality and dreams are blurring, the lines smudged. It’s somehow worse to know that his own body is betraying him like this

“Does this really feel like a dream to you, Malcolm?” Vosler punctuates with a snap of his hips, pressing so hard into Malcolm’s body that he bottoms out. Grinds his hips as Malcolm keens in pain. 

The profiler feels his fingers flex uselessly, tugging at the restraints and trying to figure out why he feels so drained. Like all the strength has been sapped out of his body. 

“God, you’re so fuckin tight—” Vosler is on the edge, all coiled energy and desperation. 

“Don’t do this,” Malcolm resorts to his words because at least he has those, even if it sounds way too much like begging to his own ears. “You can stop right now—you can just walk away, I won’t even be mad. I won’t—”

“Oh, I know you won’t be.” The bigger man is hunched over him, dark eyes shining with a spark of madness. “I’m going to fill you up. I’m going to give you all of me. And you’ll thank me for it, won’t you?”

Malcolm bites his lip and tries not to scream. 

“This is going to fix you, trust me.  _ I’m _ going to fix you.”

The profiler feels the massive length inside him pulsing, the thrusts becoming quicker, deeper. If he hasn’t been torn open yet it’s a miracle, because Vosler is huge. So much bigger than he’d be able to take if he hadn’t been unconscious for the penetration portion.

“I’m asking you to stop—I’m telling you,” Malcolm mutters out, feeling his face stinging from the slap earlier. Wondering if another one is coming.

“And I’m telling you, this is the luckiest day of your life. Now stop fucking talking—I want to see those eyes when I spill inside you.”

Malcolm opens his mouth, comes up short as one of those massive hands reaches down and wraps around his throat. A thrill of terror shoots through him, because Vosler is worked up and unpredictable and inhumanly strong. It would be all too easy for him to lose control. To forget himself in a moment of violent passion and crush Malcolm’s windpipe. It could happen in a heartbeat.

“Look at me!” 

Vosler pushes down, and the profiler forces his eyes to move even while they’re going dark at the edges. 

“Fuck, yes.” The big man adjusts, shifting his entire body forward on the chair so Malcolm’s hips are on his thighs, granting deeper access as he pumps his cock in and out. Unrelenting. Stretching him open. 

Malcolm’s body screams but it’s hard to concentrate on any of that when he can’t breathe. When the pressure around his throat is so intense that he’s only catching little pulses of color and sound. Only feeling the two spots of burnt flesh on either side of his forehead and the burning, piercing pain that's ripping him in half. 

He can’t even talk now, couldn’t try if he wanted to. He can only lay there with his mouth hanging open as he gasps for oxygen he can’t find. Curling and uncurling his hands. Forced to feel Vosler move in and out of him at an agonizing pace.

Maybe he’s still dreaming, he’s able to think lethargically. Maybe it’s still a nightmare. He’s still laying on his back in a bed he hasn’t slept in in years, projecting Vosler’s massive frame and big hands into the monster in his head.

Just a nightmare, he tells himself as the blackness blinks in, relaxing at the thought. It scares him. It hurts. But it will all be over soon.

Soon the room will change. Soon the light will seep in through the cracks. He’ll wake up in his own bed, and he’ll remember that his head only hurts because of the angle of the sun. And his wrists hurt because he’s been pulling at them all night in the dark, and his jaw hurts because he’s biting down on his mouthguard. There’s no hand around his neck, it’s just his anxiety. His pounding heart rate coupled with the obstruction in his mouth that won’t let him pull in enough air, so his body is compensating. Creating this scenario, playing it out in the theater of the mind.

That’s all it is, he thinks as Vosler murmurs words above him. Leans his weight down onto Malcolm until the profiler is sure he’s about to be crushed to death. Pumps and slams and spills white-hot inside his ass.

Just a dream, he thinks as he feels cum drip out of him, down his thighs. Vosler’s body rumbles like he’s making sounds of pleasure, and Malcolm wonders what’s wrong with him that it’s so easy to imagine that disgusting noise. A loud, shuddering moan of pleasure as that invasive cock twitches inside the profiler.

He pulls free, and Malcolm feels the choking gasp that leaves his lips at the relief, his body contracting in the absence of that unwelcome cock.

“Clean it off,” Vosler demands, standing at Malcolm’s head and pushing his dripping cock into the smaller man’s face. 

The profiler almost gags, turning his head away. Vosler doesn’t let him get far, seizing him by the hair and wrenching his head to the side. He shoves his cock into Malcolm’s mouth, pushes in until the profiler’s nose is all the way up against his belly, breathing in the smell. 

The taste is bitter and acrid and Malcolm can’t smell anything else, can’t get the taste out of his mouth. He can’t breathe. 

Vosler throws his head back with another groan, because Malcolm’s discomfort is either something he’s oblivious to or straight up enjoying. He pumps lazily into the profiler’s mouth, the hand in his hair too strong to fight against. God knows he’s trying. 

“That’s it, you better lick up every drop,” Vosler says, his voice husky and too deep. 

Malcolm’s eyes are watering, because the smell is making him nauseous and the lack of oxygen is making his head spin and he’s just  _ so damn tired.  _ He can’t even focus. He relaxes his body and lets it happen. Hopes if he doesn’t fight, it will all be over soon and he can finally wake up.

He’s right, or at least pariotally. Eventually Vosler does stop. Gets tired, shoves his cock back into his pants and zips up. But he doesn’t release Malcolm from the restraints. Doesn’t clean him up or cover him or—

Why isn’t he waking up?

Malcolm’s too distracted by this thought to hear the noise. 

He only comes back to himself when the door flies open and Gil comes in, gun raised at Vosler. “Let me see you hands! Back away from the chair.”

That’s not right. Gil shouldn’t be here, in his nightmares. 

Gil is good. Safe. Gil is why he comes back to reality. 

“What the fuck did you do, Quintin?” Gil spares opnly a brief look at the profiler before his attention is back on Vosler, on the man who is their best suspect in a  _ murder _ case.

All of that seems so far away now.

“I fixed him!” Vosler’s eyes go dark over the flash of bright white teeth. He looks proud of himself. Crazed and spiraling. Skin still shining with sweat.

“Get away from him right now,” Gil warns, “I’m not gonna say it again.”

Vosler starts to say something, takes a step forward. 

Gil’s gun goes off, and it’s too loud. Too sudden. Vosler screams and drops to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

“Lucky for you I’m not a great shot, right?” Gil steps forward, aiming at Vosler’s head. “Next time I might actually hit what I’m aiming for. You wanna take that chance?”

Vosler doesn’t have a reply, he just kneels there and groans. 

Pathetic, Malcolm thinks distantly. Unsure if he’s thinking it about Vosler or himself. 

Gil looks at Malcolm, torn. Doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“Please,” the profiler hears himself say, jerking uselessly at the cuffs holding him to the chair. “I can’t—”

Gil understands in a heartbeat, holding his gun in one hand while he reaches down with the other, frees one of Malcolm’s wrists.

Still lethargic, feeling inexplicably drained, the profiler reaches over the uncoordinated fingers and frees himself from the other cuff. Pulls his clothes back together trying to ignore the sticky mess between his legs.

He thinks he can stand; he even tries. Crumples back into the chair and hates himself for how weak he is right now.

“I’m fine,” he slurs out the lie when he catches Gil’s look. 

But he isn’t fine. He can’t move. His limbs are uncooperative and limp, his body shaky. His head trapped in a fog. He feels himself rock back against the chair, because it’s the last place he wants to be right now but it’s the only thing holding him up.

  
  
  
  


“Malcolm, hey kid. Stay with me alright?”   
  


“Gil?” Malcolm chokes out, feels his head lolling like a cut marionette.

“Yeah, I’m here.” 

“Am I awake?” 

Gil’s face crumples. “Yeah, you are wide awake. Maybe that’s a good thing, huh?”   
  
“I really—really thought I was dreaming,” the profiler chokes out. “I thought I was dreaming that he—”   
  


He can’t finish his thought.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Gil looks torn, trying to split his attention between the suspect he’s holding at gunpoint and Malcolm, useless in that hated chair.

Malcolm shakes his head, flexing his fingers experimentally as the blood comes rushing back slowly. He stares at the angry red marks wrapped around his wrist, a trickle of blood leaking through his sleeve.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”   
  


“No,” Malcolm gasps out, because he’s not strong enough for much right now but he still has the strength to make his own choices. “I’m fine. I just—just need to shake off whatever… whatever this is.” 

He lifts a hand to his head, hissing as his palm grazes the burn mark on his left temple. He pulls his hand away and stares at a shaky palm he can’t feel. 

“Malcolm.” It’s another warning. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

**.**

Malcolm is back at his own apartment. He’s showered twice and changed into his old grey sweats. Made himself tea and spilled it; gave up and chugged two glasses of water straight from the tap instead. 

It’s late, the streetlights glowing down on the streets outside when Gil shows up at his door. Looking impossibly strong and soft, hard edges and soft smiles. Tall enough to stand between Malcolm and the world, if only the kid would let him.

“Gil,” the profiler hears himself say as he stands useless in the doorway. Isn’t sure if he’s ten years old or thirty, if he’s asleep or awake or  _ alive. _

“What do you need, kid?” Gil’s dark eyes melt as the older man steps forward, slides a hand up Malcolm’s bandaged chest to land on the back of his neck.

The familiar touch hits home and Malcolm feels himself lean into it. Feels air shudder out of his lungs too loud. He wants to cry.

Shit, he’s crying. 

He hears the tiny sound of pain that Gil makes, coming up from somewhere deep and shattered. And  _ shit _ on top of everything else he can’t do this, can’t hurt Gil too. 

Before he can stop to think it through, Malcolm steps forward and kisses him. Presses breathless lips against Gil’s firm ones. Begging silently for acceptance, for familiarity and comfort.

Gil doesn’t hesitate. Kisses him back, gentle and passionate. That hand he craves so much cradling his neck to remind him this is where hands belong. It’s safe and shielding, a reminder that everything hurts but this doesn’t. It can’t.

Bright’s heart is pounding in his chest when he pulls back, his pulse racing beneath his skin. He wishes it was lust, excitement and joy because he’s meant to do this so many times. And he feels all of those things, but he feels terrified too. 

“What do you need?” The lieutenant asks again, and he sounds so broken, so lost. 

Malcolm isn’t even sure what to say. How to put them both back together. How to stay here in reality where the shadows don’t come to life and hurt him. For once, he doesn’t want that responsibility. He just wants someone else to take it.

“I need you to get him out of my head,” Malcolm says roughly, forcing himself to look up. To meet Gil’s gaze through tear-blurred eyes. “Please… Don’t make me beg.”

“I won’t,” Gil promises solemnly. The hand tightens, squeezing at the base of Malcolm’s skull. 

That touch grounds him. It’s the only thing in the entire universe that means a damn thing right now.

Malcolm lets out the air frozen in his chest. Lets his eyes flutter shut. Lets Gil guide him backwards to the bed and lay him down gently. 

He lets Gil take him apart with words that are beautiful and agonizing. Hopes that it’s more than pity, more than necessity. Because for him it  _ is _ more. It's two decades of longing and need and love from afar, fear of rejection and obsessive fixation and need. Laying awake at night thinking of brown eyes and warm smiles, and wishing Gil was the one waiting for him on the other side of a bad dream.

“I love you,” the profiler breathes into the warm air between their bodies. Presses his skull back hard, against the hand that cradles him like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

“I know,” Gil smiles breathlessly as he moves inside him. “I love you too—”

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Malcolm blinks. There’s a too-bright light shining from somewhere behind him, his blurred vision struggling against the sudden sensory overload. A shadowed figure stands by the window.

The profiler feels his breath speed up, hitch and catch and freeze entirely.  _ No _ —

The shadow moves closer, coming into slow focus. A dark turtleneck and warm brown hands tucked into jean pockets. Eyes the color of caramel.

Vosler wasn’t a dream, Malcolm thinks as he feels something warm and fragile in his chest shatter. But Gil was.

“Hey,” the older man approaches carefully, sounding real and alive and scared of things he can’t name.

Malcolm wants to scream. 

“We got him, kid.” Gil smiles down at him with heartbreak in his eyes. “We got Vosler. He’ll never touch you again.”

Malcolm lets his eyes fall shut because he can’t see this. He can’t look up into brown eyes full of pity and fatherly love. Can’t let himself understand that it’s all he’ll ever see there.

“I know,” he forces himself to say.

_ But neither will you. _

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Prompt from the PSon Kink Meme:  
> Malcolm's nightmare takes an odd, sexual turn. Eventually he realizes the sex feels a little too real and wakes up to find that someone (preferably not an OC) is giving him a good dicking.
> 
> Kink Meme Link: https://prodigal-kink.dreamwidth.org/  
> PSon Trash Server: https://discord.gg/JHEGwx4


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